


Monsters are Always Hungry

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, OCD, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive-Compulsive, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters are always hungry:<br/>Harry has OCD and has no idea how to tell Louis</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Was Born Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Richard Siken poem (READ RICHARD SIKEN)
> 
> I have OCD too blarghy blargh.
> 
> A DRABBLE ABOUT OCD.

Monsters are Always Hungry

It gets harder to hide the longer it goes on. The checking is the most obvious thing, the obsessional need to make sure the doors and windows are locked, that the oven really is off, that his alarm is set for the morning. The longer it goes on, the longer the routine takes.

Initially Harry only spent about ten minutes on it.

After graduating uni, after moving in with Louis—his checking sometimes takes up to an hour.

The evidence is damning, and so Harry tries to hide it. He waits until Louis’ asleep in the bed they share and he slips out quietly, moving from the front door of their flat to their small kitchen to the bathroom to ensure the shower’s not running to the balcony to make sure it’s locked to their cat’s water and food dishes to make sure they’re full to the brim.

It’s exhausting, but if Louis notices the bags under his eyes every morning, he’s tactful enough not to point them out.

Their relationship isn’t new, exactly, but living together is both potent and a bit unreal, and they’re handling it delicately. Specifically, Louis is handling _Harry_ delicately.

 

Less obvious are the other ways Harry self-soothes, once he’s done with all his checking. He’s let his hair grow long so he can twist and pull at his curls, letting his fingers work out his agitation and frustration at himself. Louis seems to go out of his way to compliment Harry’s longer hair, makes sure to pet it and braid it and generally fawn over it. He buys Harry colourful hairties and shampoo that smells like apples.

He also can’t really keep still unless he’s sleeping, and even asleep he’s constantly twitching and rolling around, kicking off blankets and kicking Louis in the legs. His body is always lit-up and electric with unnecessary energy and agitation, even in dreamland.

 

The checking is the most obvious, and the fidgeting is the most soothing, but the worst bit is the self-talk. The litany of _you’re a fuck-up and a failure and no one really loves you,_ the voice telling him that his loved ones are all about to die, the anxiety about his own health—that’s the worst. That’s the most tiring.

A missed call from his mum can send him spiraling, convinced that Gemma’s in hospital right at this very second and that she’s in pain and that Harry can’t do anything to help her. He needs to fortify himself before he can call his mum back, and he always feels ashamed that her phone calls are—mundane. Pedestrian. Just involve her checking in to ask after his day, to say she ran into his old maths teacher in Tesco and they both wish him well.

Work is a godsend, and the structure of university was nice, actually, the expectations clear and upfront: syllabi and deadlines and delineated page numbers. Work is much the same, writing copy for promotional websites. It’s clear-cut and it’s kind of soothing.

He’s taken to writing at home, as well, 1,000 words a day of his own original work, collected in his battered laptop, beloved but slow. Louis refers to it as a _dinosaur,_ always launches into singing Ke$ha’s hopelessly catchy song after he does so.

It’s not that they’re delicate, exactly, but they feel on delicate footing.

 

So Harry keeps quiet, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth every time he considers just—spilling it out. Anxiety does that to the strongest people, Harry knows (because his therapist told him and continues to tell him), shuts them up and shuts them down.

Louis knows that he takes meds but that’s as far as it goes. He chocks it up to Harry being a health nut, mostly, with his supplements and his fish oil and everything else. Harry lets him believe. It’s easier that way, and Harry sometimes needs something a little bit easy.

 

Most days are okay, lately, with his routine and his job that he enjoys, telling the world about agencies and products he genuinely supports. And he has his Louis, but sometimes he worries that Louis can tell he doesn’t have _all_ of Harry.

But he hasn’t had a panic attack since college and most days he feels okay. Most days really are okay.

Except that _most days_ aren’t his and Louis’ anniversary, and most days don’t see Harry frantically running around the kitchen of their flat, checking timers and recipes and proportions of, well, everything.

It’s not his finest moment, all things considered.

 

He’s almost in tears by the time Louis arrives, flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine snug between his elbow and his body. “Hello, my dearest love, I’m finally home!”

It’s his usual greeting, which brings Harry a little bit of comfort but not quite enough.

Louis finds him sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by print-outs of the various recipes he’s trying to replicate (handmade gnocchi with an arrabbiata sauce, spinach salad dusted with roasted pine nuts and doused in a raspberry vinaigrette, and a peach crumble, none of which is done yet, all of which Harry is on the verge of crying about).

Louis sets the flowers down on the kitchen island and plops down next to Harry, sitting on the recipe for the pasta. He inhales sharply, giving Harry a bright smile. “Hi, love. Want some wine?”

“Lou,” Harry crows, voice a bit broken and jagged, eyes still swimming with collected tears.

Louis nods once, opening the wine—it’s twist-top, obviously, they’re not royalty—and hands it to Harry wordlessly. It’s Pinot Grigio and already cold, so Harry takes a tentative sip before setting the bottle onto the floor, coughing out a quiet sob.

“Have another sip, babe. Do you need your inhaler? Or your medication?”

“My—no, just sit here for a minute with me, please.” Harry’s breathing is shallow but he’s not dizzy, he feels okay despite his panic. “What’s the oven set to?”

“Haz,” Louis murmurs, setting a hand on Harry’s knee. “It’s the right temperature.”

“Can I check it?”

“Do you need to?”

“Kind of.” Harry lurches to his feet and reads the dial of their old-as-shit oven, noting that the temperature is still correct. He sets his thumb against the red letters and swipes at the read-out three times, just to make sure.

“Come back down here?” Louis requests gently. “The floor’s actually kind of comfortable, baby.”

Harry stills. “I’m your baby?”

“You’re always my baby. Come on.” Louis pats at a spot on the floor, peering up at Harry. “Want some more wine, maybe?”

“I should get glasses.” Harry bites at his bottom lip, ducking down his chin.

“You can if you want.”

Harry heaves a sigh and sits down next to Louis, picking the bottle up to drink straight from it. He sets it back down and watches Louis carefully collect the recipes into a pile, placing them adjacent to the kitchen island. “Is it bad today?” Louis asks, tipping his head so it rests on Harry’s shoulder. “You can tell me.”

“I can?”

“You can.”

“It won’t scare you off?”

“No, love. It won’t.”

Harry breathes in deep, closing his eyes hard and tight over his unshed tears. “It’s bad today.”

“Okay.” Louis puts a thumb to Harry’s chin, separating their bodies so he can move in for a quick kiss. “You’re all right, love. How about you go sit in the living room and have a glass of wine while I finish this?”

“While you—what?”

“While I finish this.” Louis clambers to his feet again, looking at the pans and pots on top of the stove. “I’m not completely hopeless here, you know.”

Cold panic shoots through Harry’s chest—“No, I never meant—”

“Baby. I’m joking.” Louis’ tone is gentle, and he points to the wine bottle. “Really. I’ve got the recipes and you did most of the work. Come on, love.”

Harry acquiesces, retrieving a glass and pouring himself a bit of wine. Before he leaves the room, though, he puts the bouquet Louis purchased—sunflowers—in a vase and adds water, setting everything back on the island.

“I’m—I’m gonna put on Sinatra,” Harry decides, grabbing his wine glass and nodding once.

“Whatever you think is best,” Louis agrees, stirring the saucepan without looking up.

 

Harry sits on their second-hand sofa and practices deep-breathing, fidgeting with the rings on his left hand until he can key into the lyrics spilling from their stereo. He likes Sinatra, and he loves Louis, and it’s their anniversary.

And he’s ruining it.

He starts to panic again, heavy-duty this time, until Louis comes into the living room with two bowls, one in each hand, forks in between his lips. His eyes are bright like he’s smiling, and Harry takes a breath.

He sets both bowls down before taking the forks out of his mouth, unceremoniously climbing into Harry’s lap. “Salad?” he offers, voice bright as though he’s putting on a front.

“Lou, come on.”

“Come on what.” Without leaving Harry’s lap, Louis moves to grab a bowl, crunching down to spear some spinach onto a fork before offering it to Harry expectantly.

“I’ve got—issues.”

“Okay.” Louis prods the fork forward further, against the seam of Harry’s lips. “And?”

“I’ve got, like. OCD.”

“Yeah, and?” Louis makes an airplane-style movement with the fork, zooming it around Harry’s face like he’s a baby.

“And I’m fucked up.”

Louis snorts. “You’re not fucked up. You’re anxious.”

“Right.”

Louis nods slowly, still holding the fork aloft with one hand but moving his other to pet at Harry’s hair. “Right?”

“You—you know?”

Louis blinks seven times in quick succession (Harry knows because he counts). “Baby. I’ve been in love with you for five years. I know most of the things about you, whatever they may be.”

“You know I’m crazy?”

Louis’ blinks again, twice. He finally, finally sets down the fork. “I wouldn’t call you crazy.”

“What would you call me?”

“My beautiful boy,” he says simply, with a shrug, like it’s the easiest damn thing. “And that’s that.”

And for the moment, that's all it takes for Harry to breathe in and out, in and out.


	2. All I've Ever Done Is Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> telling of sins

_Never feel too good in crowds with folks around when they’re playing // the anthems of rape culture loud, crude and proud, creatures baying. // All I’ve ever done is hide from our times when you’re near me // Honey when you kill the lights and kiss my eyes // I feel like a person for a moment of my life_  
-Hozier, “To Be Alone”

 

And some days are even worse than his bad days, some days are death incarnate. Sometimes those days extend into weeks, into collections of times where he can’t eat and his stomach caves in, and obviously he tries to keep down something only to run for the toilets when it all comes back up again.

_what are you even anxious about, though, it’s just a normal Saturday?_ come the well-intentioned but ignorant queries, the ridiculous murmurs that mean nothing. The questions always come.

He doesn’t have the words to say he’s anxious about everything. He doesn’t like waking up because it means he has to get out of bed, and his bed is safe but outside isn’t. Waking up means he has to pay bills and go to work and deal with unexpected things, and he’s going to _fail_ one of these days, he knows he is.

Waking up means dealing with his the inevitability of his own failure.

Some days are worse than others, and there was a time during college when Harry’s mum thought he had an eating disorder because he just couldn’t keep down lunch, couldn’t keep his anxiety in check enough to finish more than two meals a day. At the time, he wasn’t sure what to say—something like _you’re probably right, I’m probably dying, I haven’t got any control of myself, something’s horribly wrong_ might have sufficed, but he had no words.

 

So some days, he pukes in the sink and can’t even keep down water.

 

Every single day since he got together with Louis, Harry has thought about breaking up. The misery of it, the vague idea of it, the notion that he should head it off at the pass is—it’s maybe. Waiting for Louis to notice he’s fucked to the gills is maybe too hard.

And they live together, and Harry no longer remembers whose idea that was but it must have been Louis’ because Harry runs on adrenaline and fear. He only seems to take chances lately when cornered, and he would never risk Louis’ happiness based on something like—something like fear.

 

But then—Harry asked Louis out the first time, way back when. Of course, he had a drink or four in him and noticed Louis’ lingering gaze on his lips, but Harry took the initiative. He gave a damn.

But some bit of him is broken, and he can’t even keep down breakfast on his worst days, and Louis’ going to leave him. He’s pretty sure Louis’ going to leave him.

:::  
Harry takes to harshly swiping his palm at his own sternum. It’s not to assess anything, but it does let his heart settle sometimes—and it lets him know that his collarbones are on display.

His collarbones aren’t a priority, but they’re a secondary kind of characteristic, because he’s pretty sure Louis likes him sharp.

:::

 

Harry comes home from work and chugs down a bottle of water, because it’s cold and it tastes good and he can stomach it. After that he eats some grapes and he doesn’t even count them.

The phrase _but what makes you anxious, what’s wrong with you?_ runs through his head because his co-worker literally said it not four hours ago, and Harry’s belly hurts. Acid coils up behind his sternum and snakes down to his gut, sending him to the kitchen sink where he dry-heaves for a moment, nothing coming up.

He curls up on the sofa until Louis finally gets home.

:::

He doubles up on therapy sometime during May because he can’t stop sicking up into the sink, can’t stop crouching over the toilet despite how much he hates looking his failure in the face.

 

His therapist mostly worries Harry’s going to get an ulcer.

 

Those are the days Harry thinks he’s going to die.

:::

Harry and Louis make a plan to go to the Pride parade because it’s summer and they have time and Sunday’s weather looks lovely. Louis kisses his temple and jokes about packing a flask, pokes about lightening the mood with soda-bottle laced with vodka, and Harry’s gut goes white-hot-angry.

For two weeks now, he’s used wine to get himself to actually sleep at night, even though it’s a bit acrid and hot. 

Really, the idea of vodka makes him want to vomit, as does the idea of crowds and hot weather and Louis dying.

He should maybe call his mother, but he doesn’t, just tags along with Louis because he wants to be a good sport. Louis wears glitter around his eyes, something silver and subtle, and his pupils are wide. He’s got a plastic bottle nestled carelessly into his knapsack, and they’re both going to be fine.

Except Harry is not going to be fine, because he hates crowds and his stomach aches. Sweat pools into his hollow collarbones as soon as they get outside, but Louis looks so pretty and easy, a soft smile on his lips as he looks at the girls dressed like rainbow ballerinas and the boys in booty shorts and leather. Harry takes one breath.

They sit on the kerb by a couple with a toddler and a group of clearly underage kids who aren’t any good at hiding their spliff. Louis pulls out a cigarette and takes a pull from his cheeky vodka, and there’s nothing about this situation that doesn’t make Harry feel sick.

“I’m gonna get a little shade before it all starts, yeah?” Harry crows into Louis’ ear, trying to be heard over the roar of the crowd around them. He ducks under an awning and fans himself a bit, sucking in deep breaths that don’t seem to go all the way down to his gut.

He backs up further but all the shops and storefronts around him are even more crowded than the street, and he gets shoved against so many bodies and he can’t stop gasping. He sends a quick text to Louis that he needs a breather, that he needs to head down a side-street for a minute, that he’s feeling claustrophobic and he’ll be back.

Instead he trips his way back the few blocks to their flat and sits on the floor next to the shower, hyperventilating his way into a panic attack.

:::

He’s apologetic and hollow-chested for the rest of the week, it feels like, and it might be the apologies that finally make Louis snip at him.

“Please, H, stop apologizing!”

“So—okay, shit, okay, I will.” Harry cowers for a moment but then steels his spine and nods.

“Fuck, sorry, no, it’s that—it’s not that I’m mad at you, it’s that I didn’t notice! I didn’t notice you were feeling shit and I’m beating myself up over it!” Louis rounds on Harry, crowding him against the counter in their kitchen. Harry feels something wet soak into his t-shirt, probably a drip of batter from the pancakes he made that morning. _It’s fine._

“I’m.” Harry gulps, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. “I’m always feeling a bit shit, actually. Better when I’m with you, but yeah. That’s. There it is.”

Harry wants to be drunk but he doesn’t really let himself do that anymore because that one time he sucked down a box of wine and scarred up his leg with a pen-cap—just, just curious and disconnected as could be. To this day, he’s not sure if it hurt. He thinks maybe it must have hurt, given that he’s a two-inch friction burn scar resulting—but then, that’s why, not too much booze. Not now. Not given that his knee has purple-style bobs on it, really.

His mum thinks his tattoos are masochism; he thinks they’re art.

He thinks the tattoos keep him from scarring up more places, from setting blood to the failure thrumming beneath his skin, from making marks out of internal wounds.

And. He’s still upped to therapy twice a week.

Because some days are bad.

 

“What?” Louis breathes, face stricken and blanched and so, so white. “What?”

“You don’t deserve this!”

“You’ve been _hiding_ this? Hiding this from me? It’s not—it’s not that you didn’t _realize,_ it’s that you’ve been hiding it? What the hell, H, what the hell is happening?”

“Some days are bad, and some days are worse, and I can’t make you do this anymore!”

And again Louis crowds into him, knocking their hips together because apparently they’re _in love_ and that means anything goes, it means that Louis can squeeze his hands into Harry’s biceps because Harry likes that and it grounds him and, duh, they’re in love.

“You haven’t made me do anything.”

“I did.”

“You can’t make someone love you.”

Harry darts away, flicking his hair away from his face and smirking so one dimple pops. “Can’t I?”

Louis full-body laughs at that. “You trying to tell me that you’re hot and it’s the reason I should leave you? That it’s what drew me in? I mean, I knew you were irrational, but—”

Harry cuts him off, frown going hard. “Don’t joke about it. Not right now.”

He sobers. “I, babe, come on. You knew what you were getting into and so did I. We’re a weird-arse little pair.”

“What is it I’m buying into, then?” Harry crosses his arms over his chest and purses his lips.

“I—well, I don’t know!”

“You don’t know!” Harry agrees, flicking one hand into the air. “You don’t! If you knew how much I hate myself, you’d probably have me locked up! Hell, I should do it right now, here and why not? What’s this that we’re doing, what am I doing but just fucking—”

For a third time, Louis crowds into Harry, grabbing at his hair with one hand and his neck with the other, bumping their shoulders til they practically fuse together. “Yeah.”

“Stop discounting my shit!”

Louis sighs heavily. “I can’t count it if you don’t tell me about it! Discounting is kind of standard! Harry, come on!”

They shove at one another for a moment until, as always, they sink onto the floor. “I’m sorry for apologizing so much!”

“I’m sorry for, like, not getting your shit? Except, tell me your shit, I want to know—wait, no, I’m not sorry.” Louis purses his lips and bodily backs away from Harry, knocking a chair slightly sideways. “You need to tell me.”

“What?”

“I _need_ you to tell me. I need it.”

“You—”

“I crave it. I’m wildly desirous of it. Just give it to me, baby.”

Harry pouts for a moment but then rolls his eyes. “I thought I was the writer here.”

“Think again, pretty boy.” Louis swipes one finger down Harry’s chin. “I’m the cicada’s wing beneath your finger, I’m the one crushed.”

Harry tries to inhale, but he chokes. “That’s the problem.”

“Not if I like it.”


	3. Shoulder the Load, Swallow the Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> man on the run

_Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done?_  
-The Civil Wars, “Devil’s Backbone”

 

“You _like_ it,” Harry says, voice flat. “Some fun, freaky fetish for you, am I, the broken, mad boy? The one who thinks he’s evil, the one you’ll wash your hands of once you realize you can’t fix me?”

“Excuse me?”

“And you’ll get your nuclear normal family and I’ll be forgotten, the waters just closing up over me, yeah?”

The kitchen is quiet, the entire flat quiet, except for their metallic-sounding voices, their metallic-tasting tongues hot in their mouths.

Except maybe Louis doesn’t realize the significance of what’s happening, because he frowns, but not too hard. “What are you on about? Slow down.”

“What, slow down the crazy train so you can jump off? Should have known.” Harry knows what he’s doing, knows he’s pulling the nutso card to make Louis end it so he doesn’t have to do it himself, knows that he’s trying to save Louis from the madness without actually having to say the words. Maybe he’s a coward, just like his brain always tells him he is. He probably is a coward, is the thing, on top of being completely fucked up and a failure, and like some kind of award-winning Worst Boyfriend, and—

And then Louis interrupts his perseverating, voice weirdly gentle and soft. “Please stop.”

Harry huffs and says nothing.

“Stop the pushing-away and the angst and stop putting out words that I haven’t said.”

“You said you liked my OCD!”

Louis throws his hands in the air. “I meant that I like you! I love you and I’ll do what you need me to do and I’ll do it happily! Fucking A, I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry I’m tripping you up so much, I don’t mean to!”

Harry growls, scrubbing one hand over his eyes. “Everything trips me up! Like the thoughts that don’t go away! That I’m a failure and my mum might have cancer and everyone at work talks about me when I’m not there! That you don’t love me and you don’t want me and this is going to fall to shit. And some of it sticks around, okay? I’ve been biding it along because this is truly the happiest I’ve been in ever, but I have no illusions here! I know this is ending because of my craziness! And I know you’re going to have to pull that rug out, because—”

“Because?”

“Because I won’t do it.” He sucks in a breath. “I’m too much of a coward to do it. I’ll suck you in and drown you, because it makes me feel good. Because I’m too much of a coward to let you go.”

“Christ, H.” Louis pulls a hard, ugly grimace. It’s not that he’s ugly, it’s that his face has gone grey-green and stony. That’s all. “I want to be here. You’re not—you’re you, and I know you, and I love you, and I’ll tell you that constantly if you need me to, because I’m getting the idea that you maybe need me to.”

“I’m going to ruin you.”

Louis shakes his head slowly. “And if I was already a ruin? What then? What if I was already a smoking little shack, just looking for someone to replace my roof and give me some new paint?”

Harry feels bile collect in his throat, and he tries to choke it down. Something angry darts through his chest, but he can’t identify it. Words escape him sometimes, much as he likes to call himself a writer. “I told you, I’m the writer in this relationship.”

“You don’t have dibs on anything. Not on crazy and not on metaphors. I’ve got shit, too, okay?”

The bile in Harry’s throat seems to thicken. “I—I’m so selfish that I didn’t even notice that, am I, shit. Goddamn.”

“Am I selfish for not noticing that you put up with a lot of uncomfortable shit out of a desire to make me happy?” The question hangs in the air and doesn’t feel valid. Or fair.

Harry sucks in his bottom lip, saying nothing.

“Are you a coward for suffering so I can be happy? No. You’re an idiot, a bit, but not a coward. And I’m allowed to be upset that you’re miserable and I’m allowed to like when you’re happy, and I’m allowed to like sticking around with you no matter the cost. You don’t get to dictate that to me.”

“You just said I’m crushing you!”

“I was making a fucking joke, you tit! I’m in this thing and I’m actually a little upset that you’re trying to push me—no, stop,” he adds when Harry makes an aborted refuting gesture. “I’m not mad that you’re worried about me leaving, I’m mad that you’re actively trying to make it happen. I get if you can’t entirely trust yourself, or like, your brain, but you need to actually talk about shit, because you can sure as hell trust me.”

Harry shakes his head. “I can’t trust anything. I’m going to get murdered by a serial killer and my mum’s brakes are going to fail and you’re going to fuck someone else and Dusty’s going to fall down a well and my gran’s going to break her hip and throw a blood clot. Everything’s a disaster, and if nothing’s a disaster, I find something to make one.”

Louis nods once, very slowly. “Do you want some water? Or your meds?”

“No. I don’t want anything except for you to acknowledge that I’m fucking crazy.”

“Why would I do that?”

“What?”

“You’re beating yourself up enough for the both of us. There’s no way in hell I’m participating in anything related to that, not when you’re coming in hot like this.”

“Why are you being nice?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I am nice!”

“No! I mean, you’re being careful with me, always have been, and it’s flipping me out! It’s why I kept secrets, why I tried to be good and do things that made you happy, because you—you clearly already had done so much goddamn sacrificing, Lou!”

“It’s not a sacrifice to do things that make you feel comfortable,” Louis explains slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“It should be.”

“Why?” 

The curiosity sits thick in the air between them.

“Because I’m not worth it.”

“You—you’ve. Wait. You’ve stuck around for five years only to try to claim now that you’re not worth it.”

“People do weirder things,” Harry insists, pouting slightly. “Like sewing together a monkey and a fish to try to convince people that mermaids are real.”

“Mermaids are real.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Trying to make me laugh.”

“I’m actually not trying to make you laugh.” Louis inhales once, sharply. “I’m kind of freaking the fuck out because you want to break up with me.”

Harry’s gut goes sour immediately. “I don’t want to. I just know you should if you’d like what’s best for you. Or whatever.”

“Maybe _you’re_ what’s best for me.”

Harry snorts. “So you can sit me down on the kitchen floor once a week and tell me I’m not going to kill you with my cooking? So I can frantically assume that you’re dead on the M20 if I get a call from a number I don’t recognize? So you can remind me that my boss isn’t going to fire me just because I spilled tea on my shirt last year? You deserve better.”

“Stop it.”

“You deserve more.”

“Stop it!”

Harry stilled.

“I don’t want more or better or any of that bullshit, I want you and you alone. Call yourself fucked up if you want, but I won’t.”

Harry shrugged and moved so that his backside hit the counter. “I was depressed for awhile, you know? Before we knew all my diagnoses, I was pretty depressed, like, suicidal or whatever, just thinking about death all the time. All the time. And a second after that it was _no you can’t kill yourself, mum would be so unhappy_ and then it was death and then it was guilt and then death again. And I couldn’t kill myself, really, but I wanted to, and I couldn’t get away from it. I thought it was depression but it was—both, it was the guilt tied up in the desire to be away from the people I’m always hurting, and the deep, the deep fucking sadness.”

Louis stalks to him. “I don’t want this to become a hardship face-off, okay? It’s not a competition. But it’s not like I’ve never been told I’m fucked up. Do you think I sat still during primary? Fuck no, I got reprimanded like a dog and told I was worthless because I ran ragged ‘round the room. ADHD had nothing on me, okay? Meds ran the gamut. So maybe, just maybe, I fucking get it. And maybe you can stop doing the beautiful martyr act for five minutes and remember that I love you.”

Harry pouts and grunts, but the air clears a bit of the metallic stupidity. “’M not being a beautiful martyr.”

“A beautiful cunt, then.” And finally, Louis smiles. “I love you. Sometimes it hurts that you doubt that, but I get it. You doubt everything.”

“It takes too much energy to convince me, doesn’t it?”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Harry sighs.

“But for Christ’s sake, just keep me in the loop with the mindgames your brain plays on you,” Louis requests. “I can’t keep up.”

:::

 

Nothing changes.

Harry’s good with routines and with consistency and with hating himself. So nothing changes within himself, anyway. He still checks, more mentally than anything, repeating to himself that life is going to be fine, every time he feels like it’s the end of the world. _It’s not the end of the world._

But it feels like it.

Because, if anything, Louis acts more solicitous and more skittish, and it drives Harry nearly round the twist.

“You’re making it worse.”

“What?”

“You’re being nice and, like, covering me in cotton padding. It’s weird. Stop it.”

“What would you have me do?”

“I dunno. But like. You asked me to be more verbal about shit, so now I will, and now you can stop acting like I’m five and going to erupt in tears in seven seconds.”

“Are you once again trying to goad me into breaking up with you?”

“No. I just want to be upfront, because you asked me to. What I need is—if you’re worried I’m in a bad place, ask me. I’ll try to be honest. And then take it all at face value. Or try to.”

“Okay, I—I need one second to figure out how to word this.” He holds up a pointer finger. “Gimme a sec.” Harry starts the timer inside his head, counts out thirty-three seconds before Louis speaks again. “You’re not the only one who gets a bit obsessional. I know I’m annoying as hell, and a needy little shit to boot, that’s fine, but I’m doing my best, okay? It’s not like I have a guidebook to relationships, either, I just kind of—need to bounce around make sure you’re okay. That’s what I know how to do. Bounce and fetch and generally cock things up out of a misguided desire to help. That’s fine. I accept it. But I need to, desperately need to, see to the happiness of people I care about. Sorry if that bothers you.”

Harry’s mouth fell open somewhere around the fourth word of the explanation. He can’t find words at all, can’t find the words he needs in order to argue Louis (until his breath runs out, until he truly does die, until his bones have rotted to dust in a box in the ground).

Louis continues. “But you’re not going to be able to make me stop caring. All you can do is tell me when you need me to do it and how to help the best.”

“You—you can’t possibly think that about yourself.”

“Can’t I?” Louis quirks a brow, moving so high it gets hidden behind his fringe. “You can’t corner the market on all this, love. I keep saying I’m not trying to compete with the fuck-uppery, but like—you’re not the only one with a nonsense diagnosis that threw your head into a tailspin, okay? I know how imperfect I am.”

“You what?”

“Haz.”

Harry blinks repetitively, successively. “But aren’t I the—the one ruining you? How can you think that about yourself?”

Louis snorts. “You’re the only one labeling yourself as the fucked-up one in this relationship, you know. And you were the one trying to keep it secret, apparently, which I’m still cross about, but I won’t belabour the point right now. It’s just—babe, you can’t ruin me, you know? This isn’t some wild Greek tragedy. Evil isn’t something you can realistically attribute to a human. You’re not evil and you’re not going to ruin me.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Say it again.”

“You’re not going to ruin me.”

“Twice more.”

“You’re not going to ruin me. You’re not going to ruin me.”

“Once more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint


	4. Such a Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balancing act

Ch. 4

Such a Relief

All we do is drive // All we do is think about the feelings that we hide  
All we do is sit in silence waiting for a sign // Sick and full of pride  
-Halsey, “Drive”

:::

_Once more,_ Harry tells himself inside his head. _Just once more._

He twists at his hair, telling himself that it’ll BE OKAY _just once more._

 

It probably won’t be.

 

Getting out of bed sometimes feels like jumping off a bridge, not like a suicidal metaphor, although that’s valid too, but it feels wet and like he’s suspended in air. He’s in the heart-pounding middle point of a waking panic, the result of something like a nightmare and something like a heart attack.

But he gives his hair just one more twist and lurches his way out of bed, feeling sweat collect in his collarbones. _Just once more unto the breach,_ he says as a slight feeling of nausea settles low in his gut. It’s a fucking Saturday and he woke up to a panic attack, like his body is betraying him for getting to relax. He feels mental and broken, and it makes him unsteady.

 

And he can’t find Louis, roams the flat for a full five minutes (he makes multiple circuits, certain he’s missing something) until he finds a neon pink stickie-note inside his left slipper. Cuz that’s logical. _Gone to get those scones from that one place, go back to bed_

But Harry definitely can’t do that, not with this level of panic thrumming underneath his skin, just below the goose-flesh surface. So he draws a bath, lukewarm, and settles down into it before it’s even full, hoping it’ll cool down the heat of his body.

:::

Harry collects the post later that week, pulse going a bit quick as he looks at the bills he’ll either agonize over or hand straight to Louis. But he peers curiously at a small white parcel, some kind of lumpy white envelope. He yanks it open with his teeth when his fingers won’t do the job; dumping it onto the table, he looks down at—he’s not sure what.

“Lou?” he calls, scrunching up his brows. “Did you order something weird and forget to tell me?”

He hears Louis thump his way into the kitchen, footsteps loud as ever. “Oh! Yes, it was meant to be a surprise.”

“It is a surprise,” Harry replies, looking down at two small-ish paper envelopes and a bunch of brochures and business cards. “What is it?”

“They’re like—wotsits, fidgets, fidget rings.” Louis hip-checks Harry out of the way so he can open the smaller packages.

“I still don’t get it.”

“It’s this thing I read, or this thing someone told me, I forget and it doesn’t matter, okay? But fidgets are good for the anxious energy thing, but also for hyperactivity. I got us each one!” he crows, brandishing them both triumphantly. He shoves one into Harry’s palm and fits one onto his own middle finger.

Harry inspects the ring. It’s some kind of flat brushed metal, with a middle section that spins around inside the base. It’s like a wheel that twirls around inside a—larger wheel? Harry spins it experimentally, enjoying the smooth push of it beneath his fingers. Then he puts it delicately onto his pointer finger.

“What’s yours?”

Louis holds up his hand, pushing on a plastic something-or-other that looks kind of like a see-saw, allowing Louis to lever it back and forth without making a sound. “It doesn’t even click, babe, I totally could have used this during primary. I chewed through a pencil a day, I swear to god, didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“That’ll keep you from cracking your knuckles, you think, yeah?” Some kind of slow heat is rising through Harry’s chest, affection mingled with caution.

“Should do. And yours? It fit okay?”

Harry holds up his hand and spins the inner ring with one finger. “Like a dream.”

Louis swallows once as both he and Harry still themselves. “Is, uh. What do you think?”

“I think this is one of the sweetest things you’ve done, that, like, anyone’s ever done. Regarding my—crazy shit.”

Louis raises a brow, face going amused rather than cautious. “You’re the only one who calls it that, you know. The rest of humanity just looks at you as you and gauges you on the way you interact with them. And you’re kind of adorable, so.”

Harry pouts, but his pout inevitably turns into a smile. “Oh go on.”

Louis shrugs, sobering a bit. He takes a fortifying breath. “You constantly put others before yourself, you let me be big spoon, you’ve got the most ridiculous sense of humor that is both inane and easygoing and puts everyone at least, your hair is reaching massive status and can probably be seen from space, and if I compliment you any more right now, your dimples are going to pop off and fall onto the floor. I can’t have you getting a big head, your hair is big enough.”

“It’s full of secrets.”

“Don’t quote movies at me, I’m being cheesy.” Louis harrumphs, folding his arms across his chest.

“I know. I appreciate it. Genuinely.”

Harry doesn’t remove the ring for anything. It’s a testament to his faith in Louis’ love for him (even if at times he doubts his own faith) and his constant need to twist, twitch, and contort his various appendages due to excess energy. He spins the ring without realizing he’s doing it, just as he pulls at his hair, pinches at his skin, and tells himself he’s evil.

He keeps it on when he showers, even though it sometimes tangles in his hair as he shampoos it. He wears it to bed, the weight of the metal warm and calming inside his closed fist. He wears it to work and worries at his fingers below his desk, rereading the copy for his newest write-ups. He makes a point of toying with in around Louis, as well, not in a showy way, but pointedly enough that it earns him small, secret smiles.

It’s not perfect. But it’s something.

:::

But then, everything is something. Everything can be labeled and categorized, especially by Harry’s sick mind. Harry’s sick mind fits into the neat slot called _Harry’s got quite a bit of the OCD,_ a phrase that rolls around in his head, always in his mother’s voice. And it’s something she said, more than once, well-intentioned as ever. She was trying to explain to family friends why Harry needed to, well. Why he needed to do a lot of things.

He never had been the typical sort. Not only does he have OCD, but he doesn’t have the picture-perfect sort of OCD that people imagine when they hear the name. He doesn’t line up his books in colour order on his shelves, doesn’t organize his wardrobe so every shirt is a quarter-inch apart from one another.

He checks sometimes, some things, only the things his brain tells him are disaster points—he calls his mum a lot, making sure she hasn’t died in a horrific accident. Mostly he has vile, violently intrusive thoughts, things he can rarely put voice to. Almost never. He can barely even discuss them with his therapist some days. He’s a beige sort of monster, stomping around insidiously ruining people’s lives.

He’s sure of it.

 

His pills are blue like Louis’ eyes are, and once he had pink pills like Louis’ lips. That recognition feels dangerous.

Louis is his—Louis is his, Louis is his, Louis is his what.

Louis is his focal point. Harry orbits. He orbits and he fidgets.

Louis is his saving grace, and Harry hates himself for it, just like he hates himself for so many other things. He hates himself for things he can’t even verbalize, for things that he’s nearly forgotten he did, for things he definitely didn’t do. He just plain-old hates himself. It’s exhausting.

 

He’s a goddamn human disaster.

:::

He can’t sleep.

It’s been weeks since he got a decent collection of slumbering hours, weeks and weeks. Louis knows, but Harry tries not to complain—he just blinks slowly and feels like he’s dragging during the day. Once, he nearly nods off on his ride home, even though he’s standing up by one of the doors of the train car he’s on, not gripping a hand-hold or anything.

He definitely gets tetchy while he and Louis try to watch a film, just because he’s so bloody exhausted and can’t at all pay attention. He keeps asking questions about the plot, and his eyes keep drooping half-shut.

But come night, he can’t sleep. Almost at all.

He suffers through it, drags himself from place to place as he always has, as he did during school because it was expected of him. He goes on.

It reaches critical proportions when he gets a two-day migraine from sleep deprivation, so Louis borrows a car from Niall (who, for some reason, doesn’t think that owning a car in the city is completely pointless). He unceremoniously shoves Harry into the passenger seat and they go for a drive.

They drive along the high street and generally people-watch. Louis snorts at the long queue outside a newly erected Starbucks, muttering, “Like moths to a flame, eh?”

Harry brightens. He knows this one, he’s sure of it. “No, wait, actually! That’s a moth myth.”

“A moth myth,” Louis deadpans, hands gripping the wheel tighter, his knuckles going a bit white.

“Yeah. They get, like, disoriented and try to right themselves but mostly it just ends with them sort of circling around the light, you know? They confuse it for the moon or the sun or something, right, and they just sort of—ram themselves into the glass repeatedly until they get concussed.”

“Did you look this up before or after you got the bloody chest tattoo?”

“Before, obviously. I had to make an informed decision, didn’t I?”

“I…guess so.”

“Not everyone’s tattoos are the result of a drunken dare.”

“You have at least three tattoos that were part of a drunken dare.”

At this, Harry falls silent. “Oh. True.”

Louis sighs. “Not this new one, though. I know. You never did explain this one, you know? The one on your thigh?”

“S’just a snake.”

“Nothing with you is ever _just_ anything, love.”

Harry bites at his bottom lip, worries it til it’s a bit sore. He can’t quite taste the tang of blood, but it’s a near thing. “My mum used to have this saying, you know? I think she got it from some weird relative of ours who, like, moved to somewhere like Georgia or South Carolina or sommat. I don’t think she meant anything by it, I know that now, but I didn’t really get it as a kid. I took it too seriously.”

“Okay.” Louis’ voice is slow and syrupy, like Harry’s usually is.

“Snake-bitten. Our family’s snake-bitten. Means we’ve got bad luck written into our genes. Means we’re done-for.”

“Sounds a little self-fulfilling to me.”

The air inside the car goes cool, unless it’s Harry’s imagination. It might be Harry’s imagination. Plenty of things lately live only in Harry’s imagination.

Louis continues. “You’ve a snake on your leg, and you’re cruel to yourself.”

Harry sighs, moving the passenger seat back so he can recline. “Like it’s that easy.”

“Like it’s the hardest thing in the world, actually.” Louis turns down the radio, setting the music to low. “Lean back and sleep, yeah? I know you’re exhausted.”

Again, Harry bites his lip. “You sure?”

“I like to drive. You need to sleep. Let’s get it done.”

 

It takes Harry roughly seventy seconds to fall asleep once he tips his head to lean against the window. He doesn’t count it out, though, because he’s sleepy and stupid and honestly, it’s just—

:::

He wakes up three hours later with a bit of a crick in his neck, his eyes feeling gritty. But his head feels clear for the first time all week, and Louis’ behind the steering wheel looking at his phone, because they’re parked outside the flat, not moving. That’s kind of saying something, because street parking is terrible in their neighborhood and lately more people have been getting towed than ever, so Louis must have—must have paid enough to earn them a few hours idling near the door to their flat.

“Love you,” Harry mumbles, rubbing one eye with his fist. “Thanks.”

“Good sleep?”

“Everything’s better with you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, still peering down at his phone. “Love you, too, ya numpty.”

Harry pulls his face off the foggy car window, notes the sticky imprint from his cheek. He slowly moves a finger towards it, draws a delicate heart symbol, and smiles wide to himself. The fog settles in again, making the heart sloppy and indistinct, but Harry knows it’s there.

:::

The rest of the week is smoother, Harry mellower now that he’s clocked in at least a few hours of sleep. It ratchets Louis in to high-gear playful mood, leading to ridiculous tickle fights and lots of laughter. It all reminds Harry that, if he just stops and takes a breath, there are good things that always counter out the bad.

He’s trying to order takeaway on the cracked screen of his mobile, thumbing his browser open (if he doesn’t have to speak to a stranger but he still gets to eat curry, so more the better) when Louis launches forward and full-body tackles him onto the couch. Gently. Sort of.

He knocks the mobile out of Harry’s hands (not gently) and straddles him, wide grin making his face look goofy and bright. “Aha. Got you right where I want you.”

Harry breaks into a slow smile of his own. “And what are you going to do to me, then?”

Louis just keep grinning at him like he knows the best secret in the world. “Dunno. Just keep on loving you, I reckon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> Oh my god what did I just do  
> I AM VILE  
> Fidget rings are awesome, they’re good for anxiety and for ADHD type agitation
> 
> I like this fic because it's just me ranting about OCD ad nauseum in a stream-of-consciousness manner.
> 
> My tumblr: musiclily  
> My fandom-y tumblr: littlebint

**Author's Note:**

> Their dinner sounds really good and I want to eat it.
> 
> Hi I have OCD too and it fuckin sucks
> 
> tumblr: musiclily  
> fandom tumblr: littlebint


End file.
